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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277945">xxiv; Starfish</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Thaur/pseuds/Theo_Thaur'>Theo_Thaur</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>31 Days of TUA Whump [24]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Reginald Hargreeves, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Ben Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Ben Hargreeves' Tentacles | Bentacles, Ben Hargreeves-centric, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Pre-Canon, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Teen Years, Whump, Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:20:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Thaur/pseuds/Theo_Thaur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whumptober 2020 submission. "No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE": Forced Mutism, Blindfolded, Sensory Deprivation.<br/>-----<br/>It is once again Ben's turn for individual training with Reginald. Concern turns to fear when when he's cut off from his senses.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>31 Days of TUA Whump [24]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>xxiv; Starfish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TRIGGERS: child abuse, involuntary restraint, fear tactics, panic, depressive state.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>xxiv; Starfish</em>
</p><p>      He could only guess at what the others were doing for their individual training, but Ben had the suspicion it was widely believed he had it easy. Everyone tried to figure out what the others were being trained in, because talk about individual training wasn't allowed. He knew he never came out of it nursing a headache like Allison, or with bruised skin like Diego. Sometimes Ben found himself wondering if he really had it easier. The damage he faced was more difficult to see, it didn't represent itself in inflamed gashes or purpling skin, though he almost wished it did.</p><p>      Individual training was scheduled, so that only one member of the academy at the time could be undergoing it, usually during study periods. There were calendars up in every child's bedroom except Vanya's, though Ben would imagine Five's copy had fallen greatly behind, becoming more of a relic since his disappearance. It was Ben's turn at training with Reginald, which he was never excited for. The activities Reginald had for him varied so much that he could never be entirely sure what he'd get. However, most of Reginald's focus --as far as he could tell-- was on differentiating himself and the Horror. Since he could remember, the skin of his lower torso had always been x-rayed and picked at and probed. Reginald had brought up on a few occasions the thought of Ben fully separating the Horror from his body, perhaps with 'the ease of cutting off hair'. He'd also talked at length about Ben attempting to bring forth different entities other than the sea creature-esque one, or alternatively, slipping objects (weapons especially) into that nebulous portal. Most of what Reginald talked about, was just speculation. No matter how many times he could try and shove a book past the tentacles, no matter how hard the Horror could be pulled at to free it, nothing seemed to budge. And Ben <em>preferred</em> it that way. He already did enough for the team without getting treated like a portable armory, or birthing fully-fledged monsters from his stomach. That wasn't the kind of power he sought after, he felt taken advantage of enough.</p><p>      Rather than finding a quiet place to do his readings, Ben kept walking after breakfast, going down the corridor to the training-oriented half of the building. Though his pace was quick, it was because he was just restless. He hated not knowing what was in store for him, even if the knowledge that he was more quickly bringing himself to torture made him feel sick. Pushing past the double doors, Ben continued past rooms and rooms of equipment, meeting Reginald on the second floor, within the designated space for his personal training. Reginald regarded him with a nod, holding a clipboard in his hands. </p><p>      "We will be visiting a different room for your personalized training today, Number Six," he said, turning away from the room and going back downstairs.</p><p>      "What am I going to be doing for today?" Ben asked, following him, a hand wrapped cautiously on the banister, like a crutch. </p><p>      "Be patient," came the reply, slightly scolding. Always a few steps ahead, Ben struggled to keep pace as Reginald walked down the hallway. He wished Reginald would've taken him directly to this other room, and not made him wait in suspense. But Ben realized that Reginald probably wanted him to be conditioned to expect to wait in his training room. Finally, Reginald opened the door to a room Ben hadn't gone inside before --not even during group training. It was on the smaller side, square. There was a cot, and a chair, and a metal chest of drawers. No windows. "Lay down," Reginald ordered, gesturing towards the cot. Ben did as he was told. He wanted to be slow and apprehensive, but knew Reginald would grow angry with him if he didn't, so to avoid that he rushed himself. It was easier to not let his mind wander, if he did that he'd want to demand answers. Ben laid down, head cradled by a piece of foam rather than a typical pillow. He watched quietly as Reginald opened one of the drawers, producing long rubber cleaning gloves. Reginald handed them off to Ben, and he put them on. Stiff and hard to move in, they stopped above the elbow, but fit him incredibly well. Pressing his hands together, Ben found that the rubber was so thick he couldn't really feel his fingers, it was more vaguely like the contact of two <em>things</em>, which he knew contained his hands. He noted the same with his arms, as he ran a gloved finger up from wrist to elbow and felt virtually nothing there. Reginald handed off another thing, goggles, and as Ben held them up to his head to put on, he realized he couldn't see through them. He slipped the strap around his head anyways, looking up into near darkness. Holding his hand maybe an inch from his face, with the lights on, it was only a slight shadow deeper than everything else.</p><p>      Ben could figure out what was going on, Reginald was trying to cut him off from the outside world, from his senses, but why?</p><p>      "What's going on?" he asked. </p><p>      "Contain your questions, and sit back down," the drawer slid closed, and Ben heard Reginald approach, which was enough to get him to do as he was told. He didn't enjoy facing the ceiling, it made him feel even less aware of what was happening. At least when he sat up, he could see slight differences in shadow where Reginald's silhouette was. "Today I will be testing whether the Horror responds to stimulus provided by your mind, or its own external senses. Effectively, I will be taking you out of the equation." Ben's mind drew a startling blank. What did he say to that? There was a clicking down at his sides, and he curled away from it, drawing his hands tightly against his body and even his knees picking up slightly. "Number Six?" Reginald asked slowly. Ben sighed softly, easing his muscles though not because he wanted to. Reginald took his wrists, securing them to the respective sides of the bed with some sort of cuff. He would hesitantly say they locked closed based on the noise, and were thicker than handcuffs --which he'd seen on police officers many a time--, but couldn't say more than that. His legs were similarly put apart, which wasn't as threatening as having his hands taken away. It was a greater feeling of loss though, knowing that he wouldn't be able to really kick or nudge his ankles together for any kind of sensation. He was just a starfish, useless and disconnected. A final restraint went around his waist. When he heard Reginald step away, he tested the boundaries, but sensed no give on the restraints. He decided it was metal rather than velcro. Ben didn't know, it just felt good to try and fill in some of the blanks. It was impossible to move in any significant way, no more than a few inches off the bed --by Ben's guess, since he couldn't judge the distance with his eyes. Could it be less? </p><p>      "You will be hearing some distressing noises shortly. Allow your mind to wander, your task is to summon the Horror," Reginald said, as Ben felt his uniform getting pushed up past his stomach, for minimal interference. A click, and the noise of screams began to play through speakers coming in every direction. There were different screams: masculine and feminine, muffled and belted, short and long --the only common thread being the torture in the voices. In the lieu of any real visuals, Ben saw eyes, watery and bloodshot, wrinkled and young. Some dripped mascara and creased in pain, others glazed over. They didn't look at him, but off in every other direction. Who were they? Criminals? Victims? Were they afraid of the Horror, or of a different attacker? Ben felt himself heating up, as his heart beat more quickly, beginning to tremble. He knew there wasn't any danger, there wasn't the kind of demand he was used to on missions. None of it was real. But he felt those cramps in his stomach. There was tingling and lightheadedness over the rest of his body --when combined with being unable to feel, or touch, or soothe, he felt like he was nothing except the knotting pain in his stomach, like everything about him floated except that one piece of another, deeper world.</p><p>      Ben didn't need the visual cue to know what was happening. He jerked in his restraints, crying a little as the Horror emerged from his stomach, feeling the pain deep in his organs and yet also sizzling above his flesh, like a thousand pricks on the skin or a large sunburn being scraped off and cut out by a meat cleaver.</p><p>      The Horror was coming.</p><p>      He grasped, rolling and panting, having no way to wipe at the tears of pain like he usually did before he faced another living soul. The pain was the only strong feeling he had in his body, as his form felt hollowed out like a clay pot, just a home for a plant that stretched high, towards a burning sun. </p><p>      The screaming switched off, the sounds that had torn at him from every angle ceasing perfectly. Ben almost felt insulted by how easily the shrieking went, right when the Horror had revealed itself. He was deeply ashamed he'd gotten worked up over sounds that weren't real, that any of it had made him feel anything. Reginald came over, Ben didn't say anything because he was too consumed by what he'd faced. There wasn't anything to say. The man had gotten what he'd wanted. Reginald didn't find it appropriate to speak either. Hard earplugs went into Ben's ears, and a hand at the back of the skull held him long enough to slip some sort of thick, scarf-like material around his head. It was tightened against his upper lip, before Reginald pulled it down so it fit in between his lips, holding his mouth open. Ben tried to talk but he didn't think he was saying anything distinctive between the earplugs and the gag. He sagged against the fairly hard chunk of foam, which was under his head. Maybe the light turned off, because it seemed like the shade of dark grey that made it past his goggles grew darker. Ben finally closed his eyes.</p><p>      There he was. Laying on his back, reduced to nothing more than his powers. That was probably how Reginald would've preferred all of his children, just their 'gifts'. No maintenance, no feeding, just tools. Ben had always felt different from the others, even if he didn't understand what Vanya went through. He could be cornered, separated from his powers, because they weren't really <em>him</em>, or at least he'd never seem it as himself. You couldn't take the strength away from Luther, the rumoring away from Allison, or the trajectory alteration away from Diego. Their powers all interacted with their environments as extensions of themselves. Klaus was the only one that sort of understood what it was like to have some other <em>thing</em> as the fuel for his power, but Klaus ran from ghouls in a way Ben had never been able to run from the Horror. </p><p>      Maybe it was easier to act like the massacres caused by Horror weren't choices of his body, but something else.</p><p>      Maybe he liked playing practical jokes on everyone and sometimes getting laughed at because he wanted his siblings to see him as anything but the Horror.</p><p>      It was demoralizing to finally be stripped of himself, to exist as nothing more than a numb block of flesh for a parasite.</p><p>      Reginald played with razor blades and candles, which Ben sensed when it hurt. He didn't know if the Horror was doing well or not, he just figured he'd feel those pricks of pain because he'd felt heartbeats as the tentacles had wrapped around necks, and he'd felt bullets when it got shot at.</p><p>      It was a stream of pain, but he almost didn't care, even if he should, even if the experiment could somehow shape future training. It ached and time passed, each new slap or stab a sensation he'd had no way to anticipate, but Ben was otherwise disconnected. Like usual when the Horror was brought out, he was quiet and reluctant because that was better than acting bloodthirsty. It probably didn't matter how he acted though, the others would still choose to send him out to take care of large amounts of assailants. They could do it without feeling guilty. It wasn't Ben they were asking to draw blood for the academy, it was the Horror. Ben was just there to watch. </p><p>      He was just a body to carry around that creature. Never was he the one responsible for a pile of bodies, or a successful mission.</p><p>      Ben didn't know what he was thinking. He didn't want to be assigned the blame of those deaths.</p><p>      He recalled a memory.</p><p><em>      "You don't understand,"</em> Diego had spat, wiping tears from his face<em>. "You never made the choice to kill any of them."</em></p><p>     <em>"You never touched them,"</em> Luther's voice said, waivering. This wasn't a memory --godness knew him and Diego had never agreed on anything out loud. It hadn't ever been said but he knew it was there.</p><p>      Allison's voice joined in, as false as Luther's, but not impossible.<em> "You never had to look them in the eyes knowing you made them shoot themself."</em></p><p>     <em> "You never took a personal sense of responsibility or wondered where the fuck they were going, as the light left their eyes. You never worried they'd follow you out of the mission,"</em> Klaus added. </p><p>      Ben felt himself crying, lips moving around the gag as he cried out, but heard nothing.</p><p>     He was Ben Hargreeves, laid out on a cot with his arms and legs spread away from his body. He felt nothing, just a starfish trapped in a deep dark ocean.</p>
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